Spotlight & Giveaway: Snowed Inn by Valerie Bowman

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Valerie Bowman’s new release: Snowed Inn

For fans of the Lovelight series and The Christmas Tree Farm, this cozy Christmas romance follows an overworked publicist who is snowed in at the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn with her nemesis, a sexy brewery owner, for the holidays. The festive spirit, hot chocolate, and six feet of sparkling snowdrifts conspire to turn these enemies into lovers.

Maria never expected to spend Christmas in a small, snow-covered town—but a visit to her best friend Ellie’s Honeycrisp Orchard Inn turns into an unplanned holiday stay when a snowstorm leaves her stranded. The inn feels like stepping into a holiday fairy tale, with twinkling lights, crackling fires, and garlands everywhere, yet Maria can’t help missing her big, loud Italian family. Adding to her frustrations? Jesse, the ruggedly handsome, annoyingly charming brewery owner, who seems to delight in pushing her buttons.

Jesse has enough on his plate managing his bar and helping the inn stay merry for the holidays, but he can’t seem to resist Maria’s city-girl sass. As snow continues to fall and their paths keep crossing, Maria finds herself drawn into the inn’s festive magic and Jesse himself, as he shows her the charm of slowing down and being present in the moment.

With stolen glances under mistletoe and sparks flying by the fireplace, the line between a holiday fling and something deeper blurs.

But when the snow clears, will Maria follow her heart? Perfect for anyone craving snow-kissed romance, holiday warmth, and happily-ever-after magic.

Tropes:

• Enemies to lovers
• Forced proximity
• City girl x country boy
• Quirky locals
• Small-town romance

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Snowed Inn 

Chapter 1

Christmas Eve (morning)

I should be in Los Angeles right now, surrounded by my loud, wonderful, borderline chaotic family, stuffing my face with my nonna’s cornetti, preparing for the Feast of the Seven Fishes, and dodging my nieces’ attempts to turn me into a human jungle gym.

Instead, I’m here.

In a blizzard.

“Welcome to Christmas at the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn!” Donny, my rideshare driver, practically sings as he pulls up in front of the sprawling farmhouse. His enthusiasm is so over the top it makes me smile . . . and look up from my never-ending social media feed.

And . . . wow.

It really is amazing. Snow is flying but I can still see the four-story white house, its wraparound front porch draped in dark-green garland, with red velvet bows securing it in place. Twinkling lights dangle from the eaves like frozen raindrops, and the fresh snowfall softens the world around it, blanketing everything in pure, sparkling white. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark movie, the kind where a high-powered career woman gets stranded in a small town, meets a rugged local, and rediscovers the meaning of life.

I am not that woman.

And this is not my life.

I sigh, shifting the weight of my tote bag on my shoulder and adjusting the tiny black kitten nestled in my other arm. She lets out a sleepy meow, curling against me for warmth. The poor little thing was abandoned in an alley, shivering and alone when Donny and I spotted her ten minutes ago. And no, I do not do pets. I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone some helpless creature. But I couldn’t just leave her. So here we are.

My phone buzzes. Again.

I don’t need to check to know who it is. Monica Moss, the actress who is about 73 percent of my problems right now.

MONICA: what color should I paint my nails for my Tonight Show spot?

I groan, barely resisting the urge to chuck my phone into the snow. Who cares? is what I want to reply. Instead, I type: Something neutral?

Please note. Monica doesn’t even have a Tonight Show spot. Not yet. Her movie, the one that she’s counting on to make her into a huge star, doesn’t come out until June. It’s set to be a summer blockbuster, but Monica doesn’t believe in waiting. For anything. She’s decided she’s manifesting stardom immediately. And, I, as her PR rep, am required to play along. Of course, with my help, she probably will be a huge star by June, but that is six months away. And so is this hypothetical nail polish.

MONICA: neutral? boring!

She fires back immediately.

This is my life. Babysitting an entitled, up-and-coming movie star instead of doing what I actually love: PR strategy, branding, creat-ing buzz. Monica doesn’t want a publicist—she wants a personal stylist/therapist/life coach. I am none of those things.

And my boss? She told me to “tread lightly” with her, because if Monica’s movie blows up next summer like everyone predicts, she’ll be Hollywood’s new It Girl. So here I am, texting about nail polish while I’m supposed to be on vacation. My job used to be a lot more fun. Now it mostly feels like high-gloss damage control for people who think a chipped manicure qualifies as a reason for a meltdown. And the worst part? I’m not even sure I care anymore.

I toss my phone into my oversize purse and turn to Donny, who is vibrating with excitement as he lugs my massive suitcases out of his hatchback.

“You love this place, don’t you?” I ask, watching as he practically bounces. In addition to being 50 percent of the rideshare drivers in Harvest Hollow, New York, Donny is also a bellhop at the inn.

“Of course! It’s magical,” he says, flashing me a huge grin. “You’re gonna love it here for Christmas.”

I glance up at the farmhouse again, its welcoming lights glowing against the gray sky, the warmth radiating from inside. For the first time all day, my shoulders relax.

Why am I here? My best friend, Ellie, convinced me to come after this blizzard shut down all flights out of New York. She and her family own this inn, while her fantastic new boyfriend, Aiden, and his parents, own the orchard and surrounding property. And while I’m grateful for the last-minute invite, I already miss the city. My tiny, overpriced Manhattan studio. The constant hum of traffic. The fact that I can order takeout day or night. This place is all the way out on eastern Long Island.

But it’s Christmas, and I’m determined to at least try to enjoy it.

I take another look around. In addition to the flying snow and the garland, there are softly lit Christmas trees visible in both big windows, and balsam wreaths with large red velvet bows on the wooden front doors. A tall vertical rustic sign that says “Happy Holidays” is propped up in the corner of the porch, and there’s even a life-size snowman made out of what appears to be cotton near the front door. Okay. Even I have to admit it’s more Christmassy out here than it would be in LA. And it was nice of El to invite me. I intend to make the best of the situation while I’m here. I want to be more Santa Claus, less Grinch.

“Come on, Christmas,” I murmur to the kitten as I adjust my grip on her. “Let’s go find you some food.”

She looks up at me with wide, trusting eyes. It’s unsettling. I don’t do the whole “emotional attachment” thing, and this tiny fur-ball is already testing my limits.

I didn’t plan on acquiring a cat today. Or ever, honestly. But fate had other ideas, because I’d spotted her on the way from the train station, a tiny black smudge against the endless white snow, and made Donny pull over so I could scoop her up. Obvious name choice: Christmas. And now, apparently, I’m responsible for a cat.

I carefully make my way up the porch steps, my high-heeled boots clicking against the wood. Not my smartest footwear choice for a snowstorm, but hey, fashion over function. I pause at the door, glancing down at the apple-shaped brass knocker, shaking my head and smiling a little. This place definitely leans into the whole orchard aesthetic.

A movement in the big bay window catches my eye. I can’t help but smile. It’s a pug wearing orange pajamas. That is Pumpkin, El’s parents’ dog. You might not know it to look at him, but he’s an internet sensation. We kind of made him famous last autumn when he was the star attraction at the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn’s Autumn Harvest Festival. Pumpkin’s got over two hundred and fifty thou-sand followers on social. He’s a pupfluencer.

I wave to Pumpkin and step inside the inn. The second I do, warmth engulfs me. Along with the scent—peppermint combined with something rich and chocolaty—it wraps around me like a cozy sweater. It’s unexpectedly nice. I breathe it in. Maybe it won’t be so bad out here after all. I’ve never spent Christmas in the snow before.

While it’s pretty, this blizzard screwed me over. My flight home to LA was canceled—every major airport shut down like the universe personally wanted me to be alone for Christmas. I might’ve stayed in the city sulking in my tiny apartment, staring at my phone even more than I already do, but Ellie refused to let that happen. She called me, bossy as ever, and ordered me onto a train to Har-vest Hollow. So here I am, trudging into a snow globe version of Christmas when I should be basking in seventy-degree sunshine with my family. The only silver lining? Ellie swore up and down that Jesse Butler—the infuriating brewer who manages to get un-der my skin every single time I see him—wouldn’t be anywhere in sight.

The lobby is full of coat piles and rosy-cheeked guests sipping cocoa while boots drip slush into little rubber trays by the fireplace. These guests are snowed in too. I guess we’re all in this together.

“Maria!”

I look up just in time to see El rushing toward me, her hazel eyes wide with excitement.

“Why didn’t you text? Aiden and I were going to pick you up!” she scolds, before her gaze drops to the furball in my arms. “Wait—oh my God. Why do you have a kitten?”

“Long story,” I say, shrugging out of my black wool coat.

El reaches out, and I gladly hand over the kitten. She snuggles her instantly, cooing in that soft, affectionate voice that makes me wonder how we’ve managed to stay friends all these years. She’s warmth and kindness, while I’m. . .not.

“I’d keep her, but I’m allergic,” she says apologetically, scratching behind the kitten’s tiny ear. “In fact, I’m gonna need to take an al-lergy pill just for petting her.” She hands the kitten back to me.

Damn. I was kind of banking on El taking over this whole “responsibility” thing. The kitten and I exchange a look. I’m pretty sure she’d prefer El too. Poor kitten.

My moment of disappointment is interrupted when the front door swings open again, and in walks him.

Jesse Butler.

I swear, the temperature drops ten degrees.

Tall, broad, tattooed, and infuriating, Jesse is the ball-cap-wearing thirty-year-old who runs the brewery on the orchard. Our previous interactions have been less friendly banter and more verbal warfare. When we first met last autumn, he accused me of being a spoiled rich girl before I’d even said hello, and I may or may not have threatened to tell him exactly where he could shove his cider. He was unbelievably rude, and I was equally unforgiving. And now? Well, he just rubs me the wrong way, which is annoying, because if I had a physical type—and I don’t—it would probably look exactly like him. The blond-hair, blue-eyed-with-muscles-for-days part at least. The plaid shirt, long-sleeved thermal, ripped jeans part really isn’t my thing. I usually date guys whose wristwatches cost more than Jesse’s whole wardrobe probably does. The polished, put-together types who make sense on paper and nowhere else.

Once, fresh out of college, I fell hard for one of them. His name was Trevor. He was handsome, successful, and charming in that cu-rated, Manhattan way. I opened myself up, stupidly believing he might actually be The One. He wasn’t. He took off, and I was left feeling like an idiot for letting him in.

After that, I learned to play smarter. Stick to the surface. Keep things light. Walk away before they can. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. At least that’s what I tell myself.

And Jesse? He’s the opposite of every man I’ve dated since. He strikes me as the type who just sort of fell into bartending and never looked back. The kind of guy who’s content slinging drinks in a small town, no five-year plan required. Which is fine. It’s just . . . not me. (I have a ten-year plan, thank you very much.) Which only makes his hotness more infuriating. Because he might look like a Calvin Klein fever dream, but he’s also a total jerk.

“Well, well,” Jesse drawls, his light-blue eyes sparkling with mis-chief. “If it isn’t Ms. Agostini, gracing us with her presence.”

I scowl. “Jesse.” My voice simmers with distaste. I’m not even trying to hide it.

“A kitten?” he asks, stepping closer. He looks as surprised to see me with a kitten as El did.

“Yes,” I say, tightening my grip ever so slightly on the kitten’s round little tummy. “I’m looking for a home for her. And no, you can’t have her.” A minute ago, I was ready to hand this kitten to the first taker, but if Jesse wants her, it’s a no.

“Relax, principessa.” He smirks. “I was just going to say she looks hungry.”

He disappears down the hall and I take the moment to scowl hard at El because she specifically told me Butler—or Ball Cap, as I prefer to call him—would not be here.

She already looks guilty, like she’s trying to whistle nonchalantly but can’t manage it.

“I thought you said Jesse wasn’t working during Christmas,” I point out, because that’s exactly what she said on the phone a few hours ago when she convinced me to come out here.

“I lied,” El admits. Oh, yeah, she definitely looks guilty. Good of her to be so blunt. But damn it. I was looking forward to relaxing out here and now I’ve got to deal with Jesse?

“He doesn’t have any family to spend Christmas with,” El continues, giving me her best blinky puppy-dog-eye expression. And now she knows she’s got me because I can’t imagine not having family. Mine means the world to me. Especially my older brother, Luca. We’re super close.

Before I can say anything, Jesse returns with a small bowl of water and a little plate of what looks and smells like tuna. Where he got a cat lunch so quickly, I’ll never know. He sets both on the floor next to the counter like it’s nothing, like he does this kind of thing all the time.

“What’s her name?” he asks, crossing his arms over his far-too-broad chest.

“Christmas,” I inform him.

There’s a beat of hesitation before he offers, “Eve is a better name.”

We watch as Christmas—or Eve, as he’s now calling her—immediately dives in. And I hate that it makes my heart do some-thing stupid and fluttery. But feeding a hungry kitten is a nice thing to do.

I clear my throat, pushing down whatever ridiculous feeling is creeping up my spine.

“Thanks,” I say begrudgingly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, flashing that maddening grin. “Come out to the food barn later and I’ll buy you a drink,” he offers. I give him another tight smile. The last thing I’m gonna do is make nice with Jesse Butler. I don’t care if it is Christmas. I have a PhD in grudge-holding. “No, thanks,” I say.

First, he frowns, then he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Sigh. If this blizzard doesn’t let up, this is gonna be a loooong Christmas.

Excerpt. ©Valerie Bowman. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 

Giveaway: Five lucky winners will each receive a finished copy of SNOWED INN by Valerie Bowman, courtesy of Avon Books! Open to US residents only.

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Meet the Author:

Valerie Bowman is the internationally bestselling author of The Honeycrisp Orchard Inn, Snowed Inn, and more than forty romance novels full of wit, heart, and happily-ever-afters. Her books have earned starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Kirkus. An Illinois native and graduate of Smith College, she now lives in Jacksonville, Florida, with her family—including two mischievous mini-schnauzers.